The Patterns of His Mind
by LeeLee Rob
Summary: Jack and his Asguard clone, Mini-Jack, are destined to meet again. A sequel to Fragile Balance. COMPLETED STORY


The Patterns of His Mind  
  
1 Author: LeeLee Robinson  
  
2 Email: LeeLee@comcast.net  
  
3 Status: Complete  
  
4 Category: Angst, Drama  
  
Pairings: None  
  
6 Spoilers: Fragile Balance  
  
7 Season: 7 or later  
  
File Size: 94 KB Word  
  
9 Rating: PG-13  
  
10 Content Warnings: A little cursing  
  
11 Summary: Jack and his Asguard clone, Mini-Jack, are destined to meet again. A sequel to the episode Fragile Balance.  
  
12 Disclaimers: All characters are the property of those MGM & Gekko guys et cetera. The original story is mine.  
  
13 Archive: Gateworld.net, Jackfic.com, fanfiction.com, stargatefan.com. Please ask author for permission if you wish to post elsewhere; she'll likely give it.  
  
14 Author's note: This piece was written in response to postings on Our Stargate and reviews of Fragile Balance on various Stargate websites. All pointed out that while that episode was very funny, the ending was disturbing. Too many issues were left unresolved and unaddressed.  
  
Jack slammed the door as he entered his house. He was tired and cranky. His aging joints felt raw and achy after three days of constant, bone chilling and soaking rain on P6R-whatever.  
  
The first words out of his mouth on arrival on that rock were stolen ones.  
  
"Noah, how long can you tread water?"  
  
Not a damn member of his team was old enough to remember let alone appreciate the old Bill Cosby routine. Well, Teal'c was, but that didn't count.  
  
Jack's comments on departure from that planet were not so humorous, nor were they quite words. They were more colorful epithets expressing a desire to never return to that sodden place so long as he should live.  
  
When he exited Cheyenne Mountain and found it raining there too, he muttered another string of curses, got in his truck and slammed the door. The drive home had been agonizingly slow on the curvy, slick roads which offered poor night visibility. He wished he could have just clicked his heels and been home.  
  
As he at last rammed his way out of the cold rain through his front door, he headed straight to the fridge for a cold beer. He saw, but ignored, the insistent flashing of his answering machine.  
  
Popping the top off his beer, he rationalized that anyone from the base would have called his cell if they really needed him. That of course assumed he'd turned it on, or had it with him; neither fact was ever a certainty with him.  
  
He nursed his beer. It was only a minute before he realized that cold beer wasn't going to take the edge off his chilled body or help his aching joints. He remembered that nice bottle of scotch someone gave him last Christmas. Now might be a good time to open it, he thought.  
  
He walked by the pulsating light of the answering machine to get the bottle, trying to ignore it still. He reflexively checked his pockets. His cell was there, it was on, and there were no messages. "Good, I can ignore it. I will."  
  
The scotch was warming him, but not doing much for his disposition.  
  
"Who the bloody hell would call me anyway?" he wondered out loud. He had few friends outside the SGC anymore. The scotch was starting to take his mind places that beer didn't.  
  
Jack O'Neill was not normally a reflective man. He'd cut himself off emotionally years ago. He'd clowned his way through many a bad day since. It worked for him. Doom and gloom didn't. Every once in a while, though, he had to fight to push back the more depressing aspects of his life. Like lack of friends and family. Yielding to the depressing parts was simply not an option. He'd almost done it twice after Charlie died, coming close to taking his own life.  
  
He thought himself past that kind of dramatic reaction now, after all the crazy things he'd experienced through the stargate. It had been his salvation. And hell, death no longer meant the same thing. He'd watched Daniel die how many times? And he'd come back quite a few times himself. It changes a man's perspective of life, the universe and everything.  
  
Whatever void there was in his personal life, he had a new life mission: to protect Earth from the Goa'uld. Everything else was fairly petty compared to that, and he was starting to treat things that way including, at times, the people around him. So who would bother to call him except someone from work?  
  
Probably, he thought, it was a long distance telephone company. One day, he swore, he was going to yank their chain but good and complain about the poor service between Earth and PX3-749.  
  
He had no family left who would call. Sarah and he hadn't spoken in years. His mistakes with her weighed too heavily on him to ever really face her again. She wouldn't call unless something very serious had happened, like to her father. But the chances of it being her were too infinitesimal to consider. Sitting and sipping the nice warm scotch seemed a safer bet, so he did that.  
  
The scotch was starting to taste a little too good.  
  
"Careful O'Neill, this could become a habit. Plague of the Irish."  
  
He wandered over to the stereo and put on some quiet music, nice relaxing Debussy nocturnes. "That's the ticket, Jack."  
  
He was starting to doze on the couch, scotch in hand, when his mind mocked him.  
  
"Jack O'Neill, master of the universe, fighter of super bad guys, is afraid to play the messages on his friggin answering machine."  
  
"Sooooo," he said out loud, beginning a round of devil on the left shoulder, angel on the right shoulder.  
  
"So you've got that tingly feely in the back of your neck and you're trying to pretend you don't, Mr. Chicken."  
  
"Discretion is the better part of valor," he rebutted himself. He was comfortably ensconced in his nice warm house on his comfy couch and did not want to hear anything that might disturb his peace. He got up and poured a second glass of scotch.  
  
"What if someone needs your help?" his mind pecked at him.  
  
"If it doesn't involve snakes or mechanical bugs, they can do better."  
  
"Probably," was the unexpected answer from his "good" angel on the right shoulder. The self-loathing Jack, aided by a second helping of scotch, was starting to dominate his thinking.  
  
"Oh, screw you all," the real O'Neill cursed. There would be no peace in his head now until he checked the damned messages. It'd just be a load of crap anyway. He pounded the "New Message" button.  
  
"Message One, Tuesday, 11 a.m. Hi, this is William with Direct Satellite T.V. Did you know . . ." Jack hit erase before William could enlighten him.  
  
"Message Two, Tuesday, 4 p.m. This is the Colorado Springs Sheriff Department. . ." He killed that one midstream. He was not buying any stupid fraternal order of anything stickers for his truck. Goddamned scams.  
  
"Message Three, Wednesday, 10 a.m. Colonel Jack O'Neill, please pick up if you are there. This is Mrs. Whitby, the guidance counselor at the Colorado Springs High School. It's about your nephew. Please call me as soon as possible at school (719) 555-3659 or at home (719) 555-7289."  
  
"Crap, should have listened to the left shoulder." He went to get a pad and paper to write down the numbers. As he did, the last message played.  
  
"Message Four, Wednesday, 10 p.m. Colonel Jack O'Neill, this is the Colorado Springs Sheriff's Department. We need to reach you concerning your nephew. Please call us at (719) 555-9911 as soon as possible."  
  
"What the hell has fuckin' mini-me gone and done? I knew this would come back to bite me in the ass one day," Jack complained aloud with irritation, but not alarm.  
  
He went to top off his scotch "just a little bit more," before making the call. Being who he was, he decided to call the Sheriff's Department first. They'd give him just the facts. He really wasn't up for the whole dramatic fact rendition he'd likely get from a high school guidance counselor.  
  
He didn't respond well to the scolding tone that met his call.  
  
"Colonel O'Neill, we've been trying to reach you for several days."  
  
"Sorry, I was, out of town. Somewhere . . . far, far away."  
  
"Your nephew has been truant for a week. There's no answer at his apartment and no one at school or in his building seems to have any idea where he might be. We have been unable to locate any other adult supervising him. You are the only current contact we have for him. Do you know his whereabouts?"  
  
"Nope," he answered curtly but honestly.  
  
Jack was way too weirded out by Mini-Jack to stay in touch, or to even consciously consider his existence. He'd wondered when he told Thor it was okay to fix him how long it would be before he'd regret it. But he just didn't have it within him to let the kid die, even if the kid's existence - with all Jack's own knowledge and memories - creeped him out entirely.  
  
"Any ideas where we might look for him, Colonel?"  
  
"Not a clue. Don't suppose you've checked inside his apartment? Maybe he's just ignoring the doorbell."  
  
"No. There's no probable cause to enter without a warrant, and so far, not enough probable cause to get a warrant."  
  
"Well, keep me posted."  
  
"Colonel, you are his only known relative. Is that all you're going to do?"  
  
Jack sighed, "No, I guess not. I'll go check with the Super. What's his address again?"  
  
Jack finished his scotch and speed dialed Daniel on his cell.  
  
"Yeah, Jack, what is it? Miss me already?"  
  
"Daniel, shuddup. You need to come pick me up right now."  
  
"Jack, you're kidding. I just got out of a hot shower and want to crash with a book by the fire."  
  
"Daniel, if you don't come pick me up, I'll crash in your head with my entire collection of National Geographics."  
  
"What's so important that you need me as a chauffeur, Jack? Are you drunk? If you are, just call a damn taxi."  
  
"I've had a scotch or two and I shouldn't drive. But I need you and not a taxi."  
  
"I'm not coming unless you tell me more than that."  
  
"It's an order, Daniel."  
  
"I'm off the clock, Jack."  
  
"Daniel, just come."  
  
"Jack, give me a little something here."  
  
"Why are you such a colossal pain in the ass Daniel? It's "Mini-Me". He's missing."  
  
"Oh. I'll be there in half an hour. Drink some coffee before I get there, okay?"  
  
Jack made a pot of coffee and waited.  
  
"Maybe I should just call Hammond and stay the hell out of this. It's not like we have an actual relationship. Not exactly."  
  
Jack couldn't even begin to imagine Mini-Jack's life, walking around with forty-six years of his memories in that pip-squeak teenage body. Nor did he want to imagine it. Living it once was enough.  
  
As he waited, Jack did not allow himself to hypothesize or worry. He stuck with being irritated. It was the emotion he preferred among the possible choices of the moment. When he heard Daniel's car pull up, he headed outside in the cold rain, cursing again.  
  
He got in the car and said nothing.  
  
"Well hello, Daniel. Thanks for coming to fetch my sorry drunken butt in the rain, Daniel," Daniel greeted himself mockingly since Jack sat stony- faced silent. Daniel let the car idle waiting for Jack to say something, anything. He didn't.  
  
"Jack, exactly where am I supposed to drive you? Hellllllll-o."  
  
"To the kid's apartment, 482-E Crescent Road."  
  
"Anything else you want to tell me Jack, any details?"  
  
"Nope. Just know he's been truant for a week."  
  
"Don't they have truant officers for that, Jack?"  
  
"No one's seen or talked to him either. No one answers at his apartment. No one knows squat."  
  
"Including you of course."  
  
"Especially me, Daniel. I've lived those years one time too many. I wasn't about to watch a do-over. It's too too . . ."  
  
"Weird." Daniel finished Jack's thought.  
  
"Twilight Zone, da da da da, weird." Jack shuddered.  
  
Daniel didn't bother to engage Jack in further conversation. He knew better.  
  
They pulled up to a midsize nineteen-fifties brick apartment building with about twelve units. There was no response to Jack's interminable leaning on the doorbell to Unit E. If Mini-Jack was there, he'd have gotten annoyed enough by the buzzer sooner or later and answered. Jack had patience, especially for annoying people.  
  
After several minutes, Daniel was losing patience. "Jack, why don't we just buzz the Super and get out of the rain?"  
  
"But I was just starting to really enjoy that feeling of becoming one with the puddles, Daniel. Don't suppose you can ascend as a raindrop? Nah, guess that would be a descent."  
  
"Jack, just call the Super already."  
  
Jack yielded. The bone chilling rain was beginning to seep into his joints yet again.  
  
"Yeah, who is it? What do you want?" grunted a voice through the speaker.  
  
"Colonel Jack O'Neill, U.S. Air Force. I need to speak with you in person."  
  
"Huh. O'Neill? You related to the kid in E? Hold on a minute."  
  
The Super took his time getting to the door. He arrived in a bathrobe which failed to make it around his circumference.  
  
"Hey, I was a marine a long time ago. Nice to meet you Colonel."  
  
"Yes, Mr. . . ."  
  
"Rogers," Daniel supplied the Super's name, having read it on the label by the bell.  
  
"So what can I do for you, Colonel?"  
  
"My nephew has been out of touch for a while and truant at school for a week. I'd like to check inside his apartment."  
  
"Nephew, huh? Always thought it was kind of weird a kid that young living on his own. But the rent always gets paid on time and he's never caused any trouble."  
  
"May we go in please?" Jack was not interested in a prolonged conversation with the slovenly, pudgy ex-jarhead right now.  
  
"Sure, I guess so, Colonel. I mean, I guess I should see some I.D. first."  
  
Jack whipped out his I.D., saying nothing, looking anxious to get this done.  
  
"Full bird, you must have started real young."  
  
Jack ignored him.  
  
Daniel whispered to the Super, "He's just worried about the kid, don't take it personally."  
  
This was the reason, after all, that Jack had wanted Daniel along in the first instance. Jack was in his man-eating tiger mode and expected Daniel to smooth the feathers he ruffled. Same old, same old, on world or off it, thought Daniel.  
  
The three of them walked up an internal staircase and turned left to Unit E. The Super opened the door and started to come in with them.  
  
"Thanks, we'll let you know when we're done," Jack said dismissively.  
  
"You won't take anything of the kid's, right?"  
  
"Promise," Daniel said.  
  
From the moment they entered the apartment, Daniel saw a change in Jack's face he didn't like.  
  
"Looks like a teenager's place, all right. Smells like he didn't take out the trash or wash the dishes before he left, yuck," Daniel observed.  
  
"Daniel, wait out here a minute," Jack was ordering, not asking.  
  
"Uh, sure Jack, what is it?"  
  
Jack didn't answer. He opened the bedroom door, entered, and shut it behind him. He knew what he was going to find. He even knew the answer to the "why" question. In a moment, he'd know the "how."  
  
Jack saw, closed his eyes, and started to take a deep breath then thought better of it. He turned and exited.  
  
Daniel could see that whatever Jack found, it was not good; it had shaken him.  
  
"Jack, what is it? Did you find something?"  
  
"Call Hammond, Daniel."  
  
"What am I supposed to tell him Jack?"  
  
Jack's eyes were downcast, one with the floor.  
  
"Tell him we have a situation that requires discrete handling and . . . removal. A Roswell situation."  
  
"Jack, you're not saying he's in there . . . oh, God, that smell?"  
  
"Make the call, Daniel."  
  
Daniel instinctively moved as far away from the bedroom as he could, and quietly made the call. Near the end of it, he heard a loud thud on the wall. He turned back to see Jack standing there with the knuckles of his right hand bleeding. Jack didn't seem to notice or care. He just stood there, frozen and dazed.  
  
"Jack, are you all right?"  
  
No answer came.  
  
"Dumb question, I know. Maybe we should wait out in the car, Jack."  
  
Jack again did not answer. He just stood there like a statue.  
  
"Jack, at least sit down." Daniel crossed the room to him, and gently guided Jack to the sofa. Jack sank into it, looking drawn and haggard. He brought his palms up to his temples as if to press back a pounding headache trying to escape.  
  
Daniel wanted to help Jack, to say something reassuring, but he was hesitant. Jack wasn't a man who always took comfort well. He was as likely to lash out at Daniel as to accept kind words. Daniel had to speak carefully. His instinct to say "it's not your fault" was a bad one and he knew it. It would have pushed Jack right over the proverbial edge. He knew Jack would feel responsible for this, and in truth, Daniel thought, he kind of was to a degree.  
  
After a few silent minutes, Daniel - a conversationalist by nature - spoke without conscious intent to do so.  
  
"Did he leave a note or anything?"  
  
Jack slowly turned his eyes toward Daniel and gave him a look that spoke without words, the look which clearly said "I have no fucking idea and I don't give a shit."  
  
"I'll go in and take a look around, Jack."  
  
Daniel couldn't stand to sit any longer, just watching Jack sink deeper into his dark place, unable to help.  
  
"No, Daniel. You don't need to do that. I know why he did it."  
  
"Okay, Jack. Maybe you do. But since he has all your knowledge and memories up through last year, don't you think we should make sure he didn't leave anything classified lying around? Things you in particular might not want anyone else to read."  
  
"I was never a writer, Daniel. Doubt he was either."  
  
"Still, Jack, I think I'll check anyway."  
  
"Suit yourself, Daniel."  
  
Daniel entered the closed bedroom and did his best to avert his gaze from the body. He took to breathing by his mouth to avoid the smell which made his stomach want to wretch. Daniel could still remember the days when seeing a recently dead body would send him heaving. Jack, on the other hand, was so far beyond that reaction, Daniel could only wonder how many dead bodies he'd seen or been personally responsible for killing. Daniel had never completely accepted Jack's violent side as being a personality trait.  
  
When he saw Mini-Jack's body, Daniel felt sad on a lot of levels. He was sad that it had come to this because in Daniel's mind, there was always a better possibility, steps that were not taken that might have averted this. He was sad for the dead boy who briefly tried to live what must have been a bizarre, detached existence from his own mind. He was sad for his friend in the room outside living an all too similar existence. He was particularly sorry that Jack had to witness the scene, and not just hear about it.  
  
Daniel forced himself to stop his rambling thoughts and refocused on why he'd entered in the first instance. He gathered a handful of notebooks from around the room and stuffed them in a book bag he found in the corner on the floor. Daniel wasn't going to stay in the room stenched with death and examine their contents. He would just take them and leave.  
  
When Daniel came out of the bedroom, he resolved to get Jack away from the scene as soon as possible. Staying was not going to be good for Jack. He found Jack no longer sitting, but standing in a corner of the living room holding a hockey stick.  
  
"Hey Jack, let's go wait for the troops in my car."  
  
Jack held on to the hockey stick firmly and didn't move.  
  
"It was my fault, Daniel. I should never have let Thor fix him. It was wrong and I knew it then."  
  
"Jack, it might not have had to end this way. You couldn't know."  
  
"You are so wrong about that Daniel."  
  
"I don't see it, Jack, but there's no point arguing about it now. Let's just go outside."  
  
Jack nodded, and pushed the hockey stick back against the corner of the wall.  
  
"Wonder if the kid was any good?" Jack muttered.  
  
They had been in the car only a few minutes when the crew Hammond sent arrived in an unmarked panel van. Daniel stepped out and briefed them, had a follow up conversation with the Super, and took Jack home.  
  
Jack's brooding silence dominated the ride back. When they got to Jack's house, Jack got out without a word and headed for the door. Daniel followed him.  
  
"Jack, don't you think we should talk about this?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Jack, I know how weird this all is for you, but I think it's important to talk about it."  
  
"What part of 'no' don't you understand Daniel, the 'n' or the 'o'. Nyet, nein, lay, ne, na, nie, nope." Jack was being aggressive, not comical, showing Daniel just how many languages in which he could say no.  
  
"Okay, Jack. When you're ready. Let me leave you his notebooks, though. I don't know if there's anything in them, but I thought I should give them to you in case."  
  
Daniel handed Jack the book bag and left. Pushing himself on Jack in his current state was not wise. Jack might never be ready or willing to talk about this, but Daniel understood that right now he had nowhere to go but downhill by continuing to try.  
  
Jack took the bag, tossed it on the floor and thought about pouring another warming scotch. He wasn't going to sleep any time soon, so he went for it. He sat and nursed the drink, not enjoying it, and stared into space. After a few minutes, his eyes started staring at the book bag. His fingers began to tap on the table in contemplation of whether he should bother to look.  
  
It was just like checking the answering machine earlier today. Every instinct told him not to do it, but it was staring at him, invading his space and his peace. The kid wouldn't have written anything in there of importance, not if he was like me, he thought. So he again ignored his instincts and opened the bag. He'd have to look sooner or later.  
  
The binders all looked to be class notebooks. He flipped through the math notebook. At first, the notes were focused and regular. But not too far into the notebook, the doodles began to overtake the notes. There were cartoon characters with bubbles over their heads mocking military spending. There were SGC budget issues creatively disguised as algebraic equations.  
  
There was even a sketch of a MALP with an absurdly large, yet truthful, sum over it. Under the algebraic variables on the other side of the equation were notes: "a = amount of profiteering by Congressman's buddies; b = overcharges from subcontractors; c = excess costs resulting from private sector incompetence; d = excess costs resulting from government administrative incompetence."  
  
The English Lit notebook interspersed real notes on book discussions with critiques of the teacher. "Ended eight sentences with prepositions today, the bastard." Pictures of Homer Simpson saying "D'oh" were near several of these critiques.  
  
Mini-Jack didn't seem to have appreciated some of the books any more the second time around.  
  
"Lorna Doone - still prefer Cliff Notes to the real thing. Ditto, Adam Bede. Moby Dick better than I remember, or better than Cliff Notes version, whichever I read back then. Captain Ahab reminds me of someone - Apophis maybe? Nah."  
  
Jack shook his head. He never understood why Mini-Jack thought high school would be any better the second time around. The first time wasn't particularly interesting.  
  
The chemistry notebook appeared to prove the exception at first. At the beginning of that book, Mini-Jack's notes were amazingly detailed.  
  
"Hmmm, maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks," Jack sighed.  
  
This notebook at first seemed to confirm that they might share an identical brain, but that they were not identical people. Mini-Jack's choice to redo high school was the first evidence of that. Mini-Jack's sudden interest in hard science might be the second proof.  
  
After a few pages, though, the notes decreased and the doodling increased. There was a sketch of Dorothy and Toto captioned "doohickeys, gizmos and thingies, oh my." There was another one of Carter holding a doohickey with squawking noises coming out of her mouth instead of words. Jack chuckled. Then there was a self portrait of Jack grown, not as mini-Jack, dressed as the Scarecrow with an empty thought bubble over his head. The words were missing, but the thought was clear: "If I only had a brain."  
  
As the notebook continued, actual class notes disappeared entirely. There were just lots of pictorial renditions of zats, staff weapons, gliders, the stargate and other classified items. It was a telling trend.  
  
The World History notebook proceeded similarly to the chemistry book. A few pages of detailed notes, followed by pages evenly mixed with doodles and notes, and nothing but doodles near the end. The only pages that seemed vaguely focused after the beginning related to WWI and WWII. They were accompanied by detailed battle sketches of famous skirmishes in Europe and the Pacific. There were some competent renderings of aircraft, and some well written critiques of battle strategies. Jack knew they did not come from class readings.  
  
After the class finished WWII, real notes ended and were replaced by notes about Jack's recent history. Sketches of battles with Goa'uld and Jaffa, renderings of a mothership, Tok'ra tunnels and Thor provided illustrations for the notes.  
  
It was all there in black and blue ink: the increasing boredom and frustration of a forty-seven year old brain with incredible, complex and bizarre life experiences trapped in the body of a hormonal teenager who couldn't do squat with any of it. How else could it have ended?  
  
The last notebook turned out not to be a class notebook. It was something the grown-up Jack O'Neill would never have kept in a million years. Labeled as a "Mission Log", it was nothing more than a diary or a journal. The kid had no one to talk to, so he wrote it down. All of it. The difference between them was vast in some ways.  
  
Jack was not a journal keeper. He just lived from day to day and packed his experiences away as they came. He buried a lot of them away forever. But Mini-Jack was trying on a whole new life, burdened with an enormous history of a life already much lived, one filled with too many suppressed memories and emotions for him to move forward without release of some kind.  
  
At first the "Mission Log" was upbeat, although sardonic.  
  
"This time, more focus on girls. Cheerleaders maybe. Go out for every sport and have a blast. Find a friend to buy beer. Show up the idiot teachers."  
  
The journal showed that some things worked out as planned for a while; others did not.  
  
* * * "For some reason, I keep finding myself drawn to the smarter girls who say 'no' instead of the looser girls who say 'yes.' Got to refocus on enjoying myself more this go around!"  
  
* * * "Made the hockey team today. Maybe this time, I'll stay healthy and turn pro."  
  
* * * "Engaged in non-hostile conversation with geeks from science club today in presence of cool kids. My reputation may suffer, but Daniel would be proud of me. If he knew."  
  
* * * "Career Day. I've already retired twice and I'm supposed to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Gadzooks. Maybe the Air Force Academy again. Nah, not sure I can redo that many years of school. Be awfully hard to start as a Second Louie after being a full bird all these years. Pro hockey, maybe pro wrestling (yeahsureyabetcha). Maybe Hammond or whoever replaces him would just let me into the SGC as is. Once he, the big me, is gone. I mean retired again, of course."  
  
* * *  
  
"First hockey game of season. Scored two goals. Call me Phil Esposito. Life is good."  
  
* * *  
  
"Made pals with guy in Apartment K, a big sports fan. He buys me beer on regular basis. An excellent find."  
  
* * *  
  
"Everyone at school was reeling after a junior shot himself in the head when his girlfriend dumped him. His mom went wacko after finding him and they had to cart her off to the hospital so she wouldn't hurt herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid kid. Gun belonged to his dad, a marine."  
  
* * *  
  
"Déjà vu, no surprise. Had nightmares about the other me's son who shot himself, about him and Sarah finding Charlie. I see it in my head like it's my life, but it's not. It's too weird to explain. Sometimes I feel like it was me even though I wasn't even born yet, and it hurts like I'm his dad. I even remember him (me, whatever) holding a gun to his head and trying to end it but thinking of what would happen if Sarah found him like that and chickening out. After that he (me?) was just biding time trying to think of another way to die when the Abydos mission found him."  
  
* * *  
  
"I am not going to waddle in that poor schmuck's misery. He's spent the rest of his life since Charlie died not letting anyone get too close to him so nothing like that could ever happen again. I will not let that happen to me. I, repeat, I will not turn into that closed off bastard."  
  
* * *  
  
"Things I will not do:  
  
(1) I will never marry someone and spend my life having to lie to her about what I do or not tell her what I do. That's a solid foundation for divorce.  
  
(2) I will not have children and be gone so much. I know what happened to Charlie was an accident, but still, if he'd been there more, been more patient or careful or something, maybe it would have played out differently.  
  
(3) I will have friends. I will not be afraid to be human in their presence.  
  
The difference between him and me: teenage hormones. I have them, and I'm embracing them. I have feelings again. I'm allowing myself to have feelings. I'm a human being."  
  
* * *  
  
Jack, the other one, the grown up victim of this diatribe, paused his reading for a moment. The words stabbed at him. They were meant to injure and they did. The kid was mad at the man he'd become. Maybe Jack was too, deep inside, but what difference did it make? What was clear to Jack was that those teenage hormones were not a good thing for the kid, despite what he thought. He was losing it. Jack pressed on reading, despite knowing it would not get prettier.  
  
* * *  
  
"Second hockey game. We won, no thanks to me. Some good checking on my part, at least I thought so. Butthead ref saw some of my hits otherwise. Rank amateur."  
  
* * *  
  
"School is a bore. Need some other ideas to keep busy soon. Too much of his life replays in my head when I'm bored. But unless Hammond let's me go out and kick some Goa'uld butt, I don't know what will ever compare to what he's doing now and what I could be doing too."  
  
* * *  
  
"Spent all of math class trying to add up the numbers of people he's killed, seen killed or just feels responsible for killing. Tried to do subsets of methods used. Lost count early after getting bogged down in details. When I think about it, I'm there, and I'm doing the killing. How does he live with it? And keep doing it? Already answered that question, didn't I. He shut down years ago. I'm thinking pro hockey is looking like my best option now. I don't want to go around seeing dead people forever."  
  
* * *  
  
"Third hockey game. Asshole from Central High speared me in the second period. Dropped my gloves and beat the crap out of him. They told me it took four guys plus the coach to pull me off him. Guy needed a lot of stitches. I didn't mean to go at him so hard. I didn't even think about how much I knew in my head about fighting. It's not like this body's done it before. I'm suspended indefinitely. Think I'm totally fucked. Toast."  
  
* * *  
  
"Memories or nightmares are back. Him (me?) fighting and killing. Walking away like they weren't really people because it would hurt too much to think otherwise. Well, maybe some were total scumbuckets and some weren't even people but snakes, but sometimes even scumbuckets have families who love them. Kids who love them.  
  
He's comfortable with being violent. He even likes it. Sometimes he feels better after it. Defender, protector, sometimes attacker. There's always a justification, but I wonder. It's juice for him. It's part of who I am, like it or not, want it or not. It's scary. It's not what I would choose starting over, but how free am I choose with what's already in my head?"  
  
* * * "Reading Camus' The Stranger for English Lit, the real thing, not the Cliff Notes. Wish I'd read it years ago, because now it all makes sense to me. Who'd have thunk it - Jack O'Neill, existentialist? It got me thinking in a different way."  
  
* * *  
  
"I dreamt of Baal, good old bocce ball. I remember him (me?) wanting to die, as much as he did after Charlie died. Wanting it to be over for real, forever, for the pain of all of it to be permanently ended. Embracing death. Damn sarcophagus. Damn Baal. Damn Daniel.  
  
If Daniel had ended it then, there'd be no mini-me. He (I?) was so pissed at Daniel for not helping me escape. He didn't see that he was just adding to my torture with that ascension crap. He didn't get it then. He never did after. Release my fucking burden. Geez, my burden is what I am. Spare me the Zen crap. I've hurt people. Sometimes I kill. I'll do it again. It doesn't bother me to do it like it does him. I've learned to live with it. In the process, we've saved he planet what seven or eight times. The end mattered more than the means. There's really surprisingly little of my life that he (I?) regret outside of Sarah and Charlie.  
  
If he (I?) could have ascended, we never would have stood by and watched the Goa'uld keep killing. If we had that power, we'd have wiped their asses off the face of the universe. Play God? You betcha Daniel. Why is it so clear to us and not to Daniel?  
  
I don't mean to blame Daniel. He's a good man, one of the best we know. He (I?) was happy to have his company then and many other times. He just wants him (me?) to be different than he really is, better than he is. It's not going to happen."  
  
* * *  
  
"Had it with school. Banned from sports for the rest of the year thanks to my little outburst last hockey game. Girls are not that diverting either. Who'd want to bother with such a loser anyway?"  
  
* * *  
  
"For crying out loud, at last I now see it. I'm a goddamned Tok'ra. I'm him, Jack O'Neill, but not him. Same packaging although a different age. Two voices fighting for control of my mind - his and mine. I can't stop his voice; there's too much of it, too many years of memories. He loathes the very idea of the Tok'ra. Sometimes he loathes himself. The clowning around is just an act, to hide the pain, the guilt, and the emptiness in him, all the emotions he's neatly boxed away. And no matter how much I try, I can't figure out exactly what I have going in my favor to drown out his voice to make my own way. I think I know why Kanan didn't let him out.  
  
He only survives now to fight his mission. It's a good fight. It's a good enough reason to keep living. I can see that. If I could fight that fight too, there might be a point. But I can't, unless he'd let me go off world. But he wouldn't. The robot clone, he couldn't tolerate that version of himself running around either. And I get it. The fact that I'm writing all this crap down, that I can't control myself and my emotions, that I'm a security risk from hell. There can be only one of us. There should be only one."  
  
* * *  
  
"I apologize to Camus for stealing his lines, but let's face it, he's the better author, and it is my final entry. It's copied for me and for him, too, because I doubt he remembers it:  
  
'It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me  
of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and  
stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the  
benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself,  
indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I'd been happy and that I  
was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less  
lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution,  
there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet  
me with howls of execration.'  
  
I won't get that crowd at my funeral, but big Jack might. But in the end it doesn't matter which of us does. The universe doesn't give a shit. And now, I realize, neither do I. I've had some fun moments living his life, both of them, and some not so fun ones. It is what it is. But there really isn't anything more for me in it. And that's okay because I wasn't really meant to be. I can accept that now."  
  
* * *  
  
After the last entry, Jack closed the journal. He added Mini-Jack to his long list of mistakes in his life. If Thor couldn't wipe the kid's mind clean (and why didn't he ask, he wondered), he should have let him die.  
  
He wasn't "just a kid" as Jack had said to Thor. He was grown up Jack stuck in a hormonal teenager's body, doomed to relive Jack's life while trying to make a new one of his own. He never had a fighting chance to do it. Jack knew it then, but he couldn't bring himself to let him die.  
  
As punishment for his mistake, Jack would get to add to his gallery of horrific mental images the sight of his teenage self's brains blown out with a gun. Mini-Jack did what Jack had come so close to doing nine years ago, after Charlie died.  
  
Jack took all the notebooks to the fireplace, and ripping out clumps of pages at a time, he burned them all. When the last one was gone, Jack closed his mind to Mini-Jack.  
  
He never spoke of Mini-Jack to anyone again. With a life like Jack's, you didn't dare look back too hard if you want to survive. He had a reason to keep fighting the good fight and, unlike Mini-Jack, still had a means to do it. So he crated up the whole experience, stored it away in the recesses of his mind, and moved inexorably forward with his life, his mission.  
  
He'd learned he couldn't save them all. And he knew that in the end, one day in the future, he wouldn't be able to save himself either. 


End file.
